Plunder Heaven Blind
by Celtic Knot
Summary: Spoilers for 'Common Ground.' A very different perspective on the events of the episode.


**Plunder Heaven Blind**

I had to admit, I was impressed. Elizabeth Weir had suddenly found herself staring at her bound and gagged second-in-command, and yet her voice was calm. The control of a skilled negotiator. I bit down a sigh––I was going to have to do precisely what I'd thought I wouldn't have to. Nevertheless, I laid out my terms clearly and concisely. "Turn him over to me," I said of the traitor Ladon Radim, "and Colonel Sheppard will be released immediately."

Weir hesitated, and I had a moment's hope that her caring for Sheppard might override whatever importance she placed in her alliance with the Genii. But I underestimated her once again. "I'll need time to consider your offer," she said.

The woman had no idea of the fate to which she had just condemned Sheppard. I pasted a sneer on my face to hide my conflicting feelings from the camera. On the one hand, I would finally have my revenge on John Sheppard. On the other, he had proven himself a worthy opponent, and deserved a better chance than to be held still and slowly drained of life––an ignominious end for such an extraordinary soldier. "Allow me to help expedite your decision," I forced out, trying to sound simultaneously casual and menacing.

I had the guards bring in the Wraith. Sheppard continued to stare stonily ahead until Weir's whispered "Oh, my God," came through. Then he looked.

He was obviously terrified––I could tell from his wide eyes and quickened breathing. Not at all unexpected. _I _was afraid of the thing. The difference being, of course, that I was its master, not its prey. Under the circumstances, Sheppard was exceptionally brave.

McKay's outraged voice erupted from the transceiver. "Sheppard could've left you to rot down there in that hole when we last met, Kolya. He does _not _deserve this!"

Odd, how his words echoed my inmost thoughts. "Let's be clear, Doctor McKay," I said with a candor that surprised me, "no one does."

"Don't do this," Weir begged. "Don't do it."

I stared into the camera, resisting the urge to plead with her not to _make_ me do it. Because if I had to, I would. I didn't rise as high in the ranks of the Genii under Cowen as I did by playing fair. "The choice is yours, Doctor Weir. Do we have an arrangement?" I suspect the expression on my face was not as threatening as I would have liked. It was my last attempt to stop this cowardice before it began. For that's what it truly was on my part––cowardice, plain and simple.

Weir did not answer, and her silence could only mean one thing. I was surprised that she would rather watch Sheppard be fed upon by a Wraith than cooperate with me. She is quite a formidable woman––I may never underestimate her again.

"Very well," I said, and nearly winced at the note of defeat in my voice. Perhaps Weir would hear it as false compassion, a final taunt. I am not beyond such things.

I nodded to my men, and they released the creature, which promptly slammed its hand into Sheppard's chest. I forced myself to watch as the man trembled, convulsed, his head falling back and his face a mask of indescribable agony. Revenge was sweet indeed, but I still knew that this was wrong, on many levels. It was disrespectful––even as my prisoner, Sheppard deserved respect. It was dishonorable––to think that I needed an intermediary to do my dirty work! And finally, it was inhuman––to look upon that face, the noble face of a hero, and know that I was the cause, directly or indirectly, of the pain written there, made me feel very much like a child throwing a temper tantrum because he couldn't have his way. I was suddenly saddened, ashamed of myself. It was that, more than Weir's cries, that prompted me to tell the guards, "Enough."

They pulled the Wraith away, and Sheppard slumped forward. He looked up at me, his eyes asking me, _Why? Why, you monster, why?_

I stared back at him, vaguely horrified. For a moment, I thought I saw my mother there. She was always ill, and the look in her eyes when I was cruel to my younger brother had an exact replica in the eyes that gazed at me over the white cloth. I could almost hear her voice, demanding to know _why._

What have I become? And when? When did I turn from an undisciplined child into the kind of man who would torture and kill another human being for the sake of personal power?

And why?

All these questions, these accusations, I saw in Sheppard's eyes––the eyes of my archenemy, my opponent, my prisoner, my _victim._ But I knew it was too late to turn back.

I offered no apologies. I did not ask for forgiveness. They would do no good.

I steeled myself against these weaknesses, and gave Doctor Weir three hours.


End file.
